


shadowing

by stratumgermanitivum, YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Bottom Will Graham, Breeding, Creampie, First Time, Intern Will Graham, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Will Graham, Power Bottom Will Graham, Surgeon Hannibal Lecter, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham is a Mess, Will Graham is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22781695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: “I’m very strict with my interns,” the doctor says slowly, his eyes on Will’s, never drifting. “In fact, I had asked them not to assign me any more. Unfortunately, I was the only surgeon available to take on extra duties. My expectations for you and your behavior will be high. I have fired interns before, and while I didn’t relish the experience, I won’t hesitate to do so again.”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 79
Kudos: 2025





	shadowing

The way Will sees it, everybody lies on their resumes. That’s what resumes are _for._ And after they see that he’s only seventeen, no one is going to expect much from him. They won’t be looking too closely at the rest of his application. 

Besides, he’d absolutely be on suppressants if he could be. Who wants all the trouble of heats and ruts and hormones? It’s not his fault that no one will prescribe him suppressants before he presents. And he really needs this internship. His savings are nonexistent, and he’s not social enough to have other extracurricular activities. He has to beef up his college applications _somehow._

So, a lie. A tiny little white lie that no one is going to notice, anyway. Without presenting, Will smells just as flat and blank as anyone on decent suppressants. 

He also probably smells like nervous sweat, though, as he stands fidgeting before the surgeon he’s meant to be shadowing. Doctor Lecter just has one of those faces, the ones that look phenomenally unimpressed with Will before Will has even had the chance to fuck up. 

“I’m very strict with my interns,” the doctor says slowly, his eyes on Will’s, never drifting. “In fact, I had asked them not to assign me any more. Unfortunately, I was the only surgeon available to take on extra duties. My expectations for you and your behavior will be high. I have fired interns before, and while I didn’t relish the experience, I won’t hesitate to do so again.”

Will nods quickly. ‘Shut up and listen’, basically. It won’t be a problem for him. He’d rather not do any of the talking, anyway. 

Whether Doctor Lecter expected him to argue or not, Will can’t say, but he nods in mimic - much less like a puppet with its strings being jerked; a single, measured dip of his chin. And then he’s turning away and leaving Will staring after him, for a brief moment, before his legs catch up with his head and he’s giving chase.

“I will admit, you have some modicum of academic achievement going for you,” Doctor Lecter continues, and Will nods again. He’s not a great student in terms of paying attention, but high school is just showing up and reading the books, and he can cram for tests like nobody’s business. It’s not like he has alphas sniffing around him all the time to distract him, and since there are no alphas, his dad isn’t inclined to hover over him either, so Will is left on his own most of the time. 

No distractions, fewer friends than he has fingers on one hand, but that’s alright. 

Doctor Lecter moves with swift, long strides, like he’s trying to see if Will can keep up. Will is slightly out of breath by the time he comes to an abrupt stop in front of an office door. “This is my office,” he tells Will, gesturing to it. It’s utilitarian inside, although the shelves behind the desk are thickly packed with patient files, anatomy books and manuals, as well as a hoard of papers sitting in front of the keyboard. The chair isn’t standard issue, but looks ridiculously comfortable, suggesting he spends a lot of time at his desk. “I doubt you will be at my side constantly, but if I am not here and not in surgery, you can assume I have gone home, and am not to be distrubed.”

“Yes, Sir,” Will murmurs, when the silence strains a little too long and it becomes clear he’s expected to answer.

“Mm.” Will looks up, forcing himself to hold the alpha’s gaze. Doctor Lecter - no one’s told him his first name yet, Will doubts he’ll hear it for some time if ever - has an imposing presence, and Will is glad that he’s such a late bloomer, because he doubts, had he presented, he would be able to make eye contact, let alone stand so close. 

Lecter’s head tilts, and his nostrils flare. “Good,” he says, and pulls away from the door. “Let’s continue.”

He leads Will on a tour of the hospital, brisk, matter-of-fact. The cafeteria, the E.R., a break room Will is never going to use, the operating room, the observation room. 

“This is where you’ll be during surgery,” Doctor Lecter tells him. “You will not be allowed into the room itself. There is an intercom, for emergencies, but I find questions during surgery to be distracting for myself and the nurses, at a time when we cannot afford to be distracted. Write your questions down and ask them later. If you use the intercom, I will assume you are dying and react accordingly.”

It’s the closest thing to a joke Will has heard from him, and while the Doctor doesn’t crack a smile, Will feels one tug at the corners of his own mouth. 

“Do you have any questions now that we’ve completed our tour?”

 _Only about a thousand_ , Will thinks, but he refuses to be that obnoxious child, the one haranguing all the adults until they give them the attention they crave. He shakes his head, and is surprised to see Doctor Lecter frown. 

“If we’re going to do this, we should do it properly. Questions are good. They show that you’ve been paying attention and are invested in the subject material. I’ll expect you to have questions after operations. I don’t want to be pestered with them at inconvenient times, but you are here to learn and should feel free to do so.”

He gives Will another long, searching stare. Will is bubbling with curiosity, to an almost childish degree, but he manages to push it down. Instead, another nod, and then an awkward tug at the strap of his satchel. 

“I brought notebooks,” he says, sounding _exactly_ like some sort of over-enthused Boy Scout. He cringes, but Doctor Lecter looks approving. 

“Good. Tablets and other devices are helpful, but also distracting. Now, follow me. I don’t trust anyone to have taught you proper sterilization procedures.”

He’s not exactly wrong - no one taught Will much of anything about anything, unless you count textbooks he’s read, long nights in the library, and an imagination combined with a Google search history that probably had his NSA agent put him on a list. He knows how to sterilize a lot of things, and has had some practice. One doesn’t go through life nicking oneself on less-than-savory fishing gear and rusted boat engines without growing a bit of a complex about keeping things clean.

He sees the same obsessiveness in his new attending, though Doctor Lecter has an attention to detail and a sense of smell that borders on hypochondriacal. They spend the first forty-five minutes of Will’s day learning how to wash hands properly.

“You may want to invest in some lotion,” Doctor Lecter tells him. “Gloves and repeated washing will dry you out until your skin gets used to it. And hydrate more; you seem like you could use it.”

Will wants to ask if he uses lotion. What kind he uses. But those are not the kinds of questions he senses would be welcomed. By the time Doctor Lecter deems Will clean-handed enough, Will’s nailbeds are dry and cracking, his knuckles hurt from the stiff-bristled brush, and his skin has that particular tingling warmth of oversensitivity.

He resists the urge to put his hands under his arms, as he does when the thought of touching anything starts to get to him. As a result, his fingers twitch and curl at his sides, as Doctor Lecter leads him out of the scrub room and towards the E.R..

“A regular part of my day is checking on my patients during their postoperative treatment,” he tells Will. “It’s important to check for negative reactions to any medication they may be on. Regular communication between the nurses and the medical staff is imperative.”

“Is there any point you turn them over to the medical side fully?” Will asks.

Doctor Lecter blinks at him, as though surprised that Will speaks. He lets out a quiet hum. “There’s no specific timeline, no,” he replies. “Simply when I deem them beyond superior benefit from my care, and at the time they would be better treated in someone else’s hands.”

Will’s brow arches. He bites his tongue.

Doctor Lecter’s eyes, dark with amusement, meet his. “Yes?”

“Nothing pertaining to medicine,” Will says. Tactfully. Like an omega would do.

He receives another blink for that. A very slight trace of a smile. “You need to work on your poker face, Mister Graham,” he says, and that is all he says, turning and leading the way towards his first patient, and grabbing his chart from the end of the bed.

Most of Doctor Lecter’s patients need very basic care. A few questions for their nurses about their medication regimens, a few questions for the patients themselves about their pain level and any worrying symptoms. One or two are having their bandages changed when they check in, and Hannibal stops to talk to one nurse about infection. 

It’s an overwhelming amount of information. Nothing that Will can justify writing down, but enough to have his head spinning. He’s quiet when they return to Hannibal’s office, contemplative. 

“Ask your questions,” Doctor Lecter says, gesturing to a seat before his desk.

Will doesn’t know where to start. He feels like he could talk to Doctor Lecter for hours and never run out of questions. There’s so much he wants to _know_. 

“Why do you check on your patients yourself?” he begins. “There must be other doctors overseeing their cases, not to mention the nurses.” 

Doctor Lecter leans back in his chair, contemplating Will. “I prefer a certain amount of control over situations,” he says, “And I dislike secondhand information. I would much rather see to my patients’ recovery myself, than leave it in the hands of someone who doesn’t know their body in the same way I do.”

“It must be pretty intimate,” Will guesses, “Having your hands inside a person’s body.”

Doctor Lecter tilts his head. “Intimate is certainly one way to describe it. In a way, the doctor-patient relationship is an incredibly personal one, however brief it may be. Often, we will tell our doctors things we wouldn’t tell other people.”

“Not always,” Will notes. “Especially if we’re embarrassed or doing something we shouldn’t be. Like your patient with the partial nephrectomy.”

He’s said something wrong. Doctor Lecter’s eyes narrow. “What about him?”

Will fidgets, uncomfortable with having all of Doctor Lecter’s attention focused so strongly on him. “He’s lying to you about his diet. I’m not sure how, if it’s a friend or a relative, or a nurse taking pity on him, but he’s been eating things he shouldn’t be.”

“And what makes you say that?”

Will shrugs. “People have tells. Their eyes shift to the top corner, they tap their fingers, lick their lips. Liars will include excessive amounts of details to make their story seem more believable.”

He wants to go back five minutes and shut himself up, but too late for that. Doctor Lecter stares at him for a long moment. 

Then he smiles.

“His wife sneaks things in in her handbag. One of the nurses will be discussing it with him. You may do well here, Mister Graham.”

Will flushes, eyes dipping down, because it’s a Goddamn curse of omega biology that he’ll get all giddy under the praise of an alpha. Stupid hormonal shit, and he hasn’t even presented yet. Still, at least it’s a part to play, and he tries not to think about how strong his reaction was, even without an excess of hormones.

He clears his throat, searching desperately for something to change the subject. He regrets sitting down, now - he normally paces when he’s anxious, and his knee jogs up and down as he tries to work out that energy.

Doctor Lecter notices. Of course he does. His head tilts, and he gives a nod to Will’s leg. “Is that a symptom of excitement, or nerves?” he asks.

Will swallows. “Neither,” he replies. “I prefer to be upright. Walking around. Helps me think.”

Doctor Lecter hums. “A surgeon may be required to be utterly still for hours at a time. One careless jolt and the patient bleeds out, an artery nicked or a clot overlooked.”

“Surgery’s different,” Will replies. “I’m capable of being still.”

“Oh?” His declaration is met with a raised brow.

Will nods. He stands, because there’s no point in hiding it now if Doctor Lecter already knows about it. “I fish a lot,” he says. “You have to be still, for them, as well.” His fingers lift, trail along one of the plaques denoting an achievement on the wall. It is there, finally, that he finds his attending’s first name; _Hannibal_. Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Not something one forgets easily, like the man himself. “One ‘careless jolt’ and you go hungry.”

Doctor Lecter - _Hannibal_ \- says nothing to this, but when Will turns, he finds Hannibal eyeing him with a curious look; considering. A patient predator regarding the herd to see where the weak members are, if any. Will has no intention of showing any particular weakness, but he can’t deny that being looked at like that is unnerving.

“I can be still if you want me to,” Will reiterates. 

“But your preference is motion.” Hannibal tilts his head a fraction of an inch. “Sharks asphyxiate if they stop swimming. Motion is necessary for their survival.”

“Sharks are hunters, despite their prey,” Will says wryly, “not fishermen.”

“But for humans, the similarities are there. It’s important to know when to be still for a hunt, and when to move.”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” Will asks with a raised eyebrow. “To learn?”

Hannibal gives him a slow, searching look, and smiles. 

  
  
  
  
  


As Will learns over the next few weeks, conversations with Hannibal often feel like short answer test questions. He feels like he’s barely passing, keeping his head above water only because his toes touch the bottom. He has a near perfect memory of anything he reads, and it serves him well. He stumbles along, keeping up with Hannibal through sheer force of will. 

“You’ve lasted longer than his last one,” a nurse tells him one day. “I think she had a nervous breakdown, poor girl.”

Will can see why. Hannibal is never cruel, never anything but impeccably polite, but his expectations are high. He quizzes Will after observations, critiques his notes, pries open Will’s skull until it feels like his brain is leaking out his ears. 

Will has never been happier in his entire life. 

He feels _challenged_ here. Like he has to really understand what he’s doing, rather than the rote memorization of most of his classes. Every disappointed hum from Hannibal is encouragement to focus harder, study longer. 

Will’s notebook gathers highlights and color coded tabs. 

He’s watched Hannibal enough now to know that lack of disappointment, or the occasional chiding remark, is as good as praise. It’s not easy, and Will can’t help wonder if he would be dealing with it so well had he presented already; omegas need praise, validation, especially from alphas they consider pillars of support or comfort. Not to say Hannibal is that for him, but he’s an authority figure, and Will doesn’t want to get kicked out of his shadow rotation. 

When he’s not at the hospital, following Hannibal around like a trained dog, he’s reading in the library, or using the all-powerful Google to answer questions he has. He asks Hannibal questions, too, but finds himself trying to stymy the doctor as much as learn from him. Hannibal, while an E.R. surgeon and therefore slave to any random G.S.W. or transplant that comes his way, seems like the kind of man who likes the weird cases. The head-scratchers. The exploratory surgeries.

The first time Will watches Hannibal in surgery might be the longest he’s ever been so absolutely still. He watches, enthralled, the observation window at a perfect angle for him to see Hannibal, gloves stretched tight over his knuckles, fingers delicately poised around the scalpel like it’s a pencil sharpened to a fine tip, just waiting for him to create a masterpiece. 

It’s an appendectomy. Hannibal had Will read the chart, give out the orders to the anaesthesiologist, talk out the implements he’ll need, and set up the entire surgical station as though he was one of the assistants in the room with Hannibal. In his head, of course, he doesn’t have the training or authority to do any of it himself. Yet. While scrubbing up and washing their hands, Hannibal had Will list out the potential complications and percentages thereof. Had him memorize the statistics of omega complications verses alpha and beta - betas have the highest risk of complications during surgery, because they lack the additional adrenal glands that give them survival instincts omegas and alphas possess. Alphas have to be able to survive ruts, and dominance fights, and omegas have to handle heats and possess an impressive internal system that is meant to keep them alive in terrible conditions. Betas don’t, so when their bodies start giving out on them, they have fewer failsafes to keep them going.

In answer to Will reciting all of this, Hannibal had merely eyed him again, in that assessing way, given a short nod, and had him list out the post-op steps that would be implemented once the patient was out of surgery. 

Now, Will can watch. _Observe_ , a voice in his head that sounds like Hannibal murmurs. Like a shark might watch a school of fish and let the current drag it steadily closer. 

First, an incision. The scalpel is so sharp that flesh becomes butter, parting for Hannibal with ease, through skin and muscle. Forceps to open the patient wider, and then Hannibal is inside, sliding his fingers deep. It’s like watching someone paint. Hannibal's hands are talented, cutting and clamping with the grace of someone who has done so a thousand times. 

Will doesn’t even realize he hasn’t taken a single note until Hannibal begins to sew up the incision. He scrambles, panicked, scribbling down a sloppy play-by-play of the event. 

When he looks up again, Hannibal’s eyes catch his, just for a fleeting moment. 

Will’s heart pounds and he feels a sudden, overwhelming, crushing shame. It seems a failure to present doesn’t make him immune to other silly omega habits. Like latching on to the first handsome alpha that pays him the slightest bit of attention. He feels like a child, foolish and empty headed. He has no decent excuse when Hannibal raises an eyebrow at his unusually terrible handwriting. 

“Most of my interns are ill during their first observation,” Hannibal finally says when he hands the notebook back. “I suppose we are both fortunate that you managed to stay through the duration.”

Will shouldn’t feel relieved, like he’s gotten away with something, but he does. He resolves to be more diligent in his note taking. It’s just a silly crush. 

  
  
  
  
  


It’s not a silly crush. It gets worse with every shift. Will latches on to anything resembling praise, hoards the tiny upticks of Hannibal’s lips as though they’re broad, beaming smiles. His notes become more thorough, but only because he cannot tear his eyes away from Hannibal. At some point, he figures out that Hannibal _smells_ really good, and spends two entire shifts trying to keep three paces between them at all times. 

Hannibal notices. Of course he does. The man has eyes like a Goddamn eagle and a bloodhound’s nose. He knows when Will is coming, knows when he leaves. Probably can hear his heart whenever it starts to race - and it does, often, when Hannibal’s gaze locks with his a fraction too long, when they get just a little too close.

It’s ridiculous, and not only that, it’s distracting. Will can’t afford to be distracted if he’s going to learn, and Hannibal can’t afford to be distracted when he’s literally got people’s lives in his hands. Assuming Hannibal is feeling any kind of reciprocal effects, which is another silly omega notion Will can’t quite stamp out.

“Your ability to multitask is improving,” Hannibal tells him one day, in that way that is praise without quite being praise. Will’s stupid heart flutters and his cheeks grow warm. “Your notes are becoming much more thorough, and more relevant. That’s good.”

Will nods, mutely, because if he tries to answer he’ll say something stupid and if there’s one thing Hannibal has no patience for, it’s willful stupidity. 

Hannibal eyes him, handing Will his notebook back. Will resists the urge to clutch it to his chest and breathe in the remnants of the alpha’s scent like some lovesick child. Hannibal sighs, through his nose, and lifts his chin. Will straightens in answer.

“I can’t help but feeling there is a lingering disquiet in you,” he says. “Are you finding the experience of a surgeon much different than you imagined?”

Will clears his throat. “No, Doctor,” he replies.

Hannibal’s brows rise. “So it’s just like you imagined?”

Will flushes. “I just meant it’s not...it’s different, sure. But that’s not a bad thing. I’m not disquieted.”

“What are you, then?” Hannibal asks. He’s just as polite and aloof as he ever is, talking to Will, but there’s teeth in his tone and his gaze is sharp. Suddenly, Will feels like, if he is still a shark, he’s caught on a hook and there’s no way to get free without ripping himself to pieces.

“I’m….” Will swallows, and shakes his head. “Nothing, Doctor. I promise.”

Hannibal hums, and then he’s suddenly right in front of Will, breaking Will’s self-imposed three-pace rule like it means nothing. Will blinks up at him, wide-eyed, as Hannibal takes his chin and forces him to keep his gaze upwards.

“When you are in surgery,” Hannibal tells him, “there exists only you, and God, and Death. Even your patient is an inconsequential machine, a puzzle placed in front of you for you to solve.” He releases Will’s chin, and gently taps his fingers to Will’s temple. “You need to learn to get out of your head, if you’re going to beat God and Death, Will.”

 _Will_. One quiet breath of his name and Will can barely see. He bows his head, nodding, and refuses to take a step back because that feels like admitting defeat. 

He clears his throat. Swallows. Dares; “I understand. Hannibal.”

It works. The moment breaks, the intensity of Hannibal’s gaze gentles, and he even smiles, warm and amused. “Don’t press your luck, Mister Graham. Now, come with me. I want you to lead the post-op assessment of Missus Sutherland and advise me if she’s ready for release.”

Will nods, only feeling like there is air again when Hannibal turns away from him, and follows behind.

  
  
  
  
  


Will fills his first notebook and starts a second one. He learns the routines by heart, knows every patient that goes under Hannibal’s scalpel. He asks and answers questions. He reads articles until his brain scrambles. 

“It’s garbage,” he tells Hannibal of one, sliding it across the desk with a look of disgust. Hannibal tilts his head curiously. 

“Care to explain?”

Will’s eyes narrow. He knows, by now, what that look means on Hannibal’s face. 

“You knew it was garbage before you gave it to me,” he says accusingly. “You hate it just as much as I do, and you still made me read it.”

“It is good to know contrary opinions when one is studying as vast a field as surgery.”

“Contrary,” Will agrees, “not _stupid._ This is terrible.”

“It is. Tell me why.”

It goes on like that. Will gets better at explaining his thoughts. He _impresses_ Hannibal. 

“Good,” Hannibal tells him. “Excellent work.”

The words linger. They _echo_ , they weave into Will’s dreams. _Good. Good boy. So good, Will._ He wakes hot and hard and humiliated. He starts taking cold showers. 

They don’t help. 

At first, his psyche is merciful on him. His fantasies - he can’t call them ‘wet dreams’, it’s so fucking juvenile, makes him feel like a desperate kid who doesn’t know any better - are vague. At first. He can pretend the low, accented voice in his head belongs to anyone. Can pretend the wide, warm hands he imagines pressing into his flanks, between his legs, around his throat and through his hair are anyone’s hands. Just an alpha, that’s all he wants, and he desperately begs his body to agree.

But it gets worse. In a world of sterile chrome and unfeeling latex, Hannibal is a source of vibrant heat. A _good_ alpha, and not just that, a strong, controlled, calculated one. Clever, wealthy, a source of mental stimulation and challenge. Yes, Hannibal is attractive, Will isn’t blind and he’s certainly not too proud to admit that, but he’s not _just_ attractive. He’s smart, and he’s just better, and he challenges Will to be better. Will adores that about him.

  
  
  
  
  


Will knows about two seconds after waking up that he’s royally fucked in all the ways except the one he really wants to be. He’s shaking, he can barely see straight, and his mattress is soaked through to the other side when he tries to flip it. A shower doesn’t do much, and he feels nauseous and hungry and if he’s getting sick - please let it just be him getting sick - he can’t in good conscience go to the hospital and risk Hannibal’s patients.

Precisely two minutes after the time he’s meant to arrive at the hospital, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he’s curled up in a sweaty ball of misery and his phone starts ringing. He’s tempted to ignore it, except he knows exactly who it is and the thought of hearing Hannibal’s voice makes him feel all fluttery and warm.

He paws at the phone and shoves it under his cheek. “Hello.”

“I expect all my staff to give appropriate warning for their absences,” Hannibal says. He sounds cold and disappointed and Will clenches his eyes tightly shut and bites savagely into his lower lip so he doesn’t whimper. _Soothe, placate,_ both desires scream at him. He behaved badly, he made his alpha mad, he -. “I certainly hope you have a good reason for it, Will.”

“I’m sorry,” Will rasps, hoping his voice doesn’t come out as weak and pathetic as he feels. He curls his fingers around his sweaty blankets, itching at the inside of his wrists, attempting to self-soothe, to do _something_ that will mimic big hands and rough claws in his skin. “I -. I don’t think I should come in. I don’t feel great and I don’t want to get anyone sick.”

There’s a pause, one of those sharp-toothed ones Will is used to, a knife edge upon which he may receive Hannibal’s disapproval or praise. He aches, aches for something, something warm and heavy at his back. Something sharp in his neck, holding him down, promising everything will be okay, he doesn’t have to worry about anything -.

“Nevertheless, you should have told me so I knew not to expect you,” Hannibal murmurs, but his voice is gentler now. Because Will’s just a fucking kid and he’s sick and miserable and Hannibal probably knows exactly why, the bastard.

Will sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Won’t happen again.”

“Get some rest and drink plenty of fluids, Will,” Hannibal says, even softer now. “I do hope you feel better soon.”

The line ends before Will can put his foot in his fucking mouth and beg Hannibal to stay like some needy omega. It’s not heat, he’s heard enough about that to know, but it feels awful all the same. He wishes, for perhaps the first time in his life, that he wasn’t alone in his tiny, empty bed. That there was someone warm and strong here with him, to pet him and soothe him and make it go away.

He closes his eyes, resigned to spending the rest of the day miserable and sweaty, and tries to get some sleep.

  
  
  
  
  


_Good boy_. 

Sharp teeth dig into his throat, rip, _tear_. Will whines into the sheets as gentle hands rearrange him. He can feel blood trickling over his collarbone in a steady river. He’s wet everywhere, swimming in it, thick and cloying.

 _Hush_.

A deep, soothing purr rumbling at his back, a growl. Will arches, pushes himself back, and even though he’s never felt it he knows, he _knows_ how good it’s going to be. How he’ll stretch wide around his alpha, how he’ll gasp and moan and claw at the sheets.

It will hurt. A burn at the base of his spine, a quiver in his thighs, those _hands_ everywhere. Fingers between his teeth tasting of copper and sweetness, or grasping at his hips to arch him further.

 _Be good. Let me in_.

And when the peak finally hits, when they’re tumbling over the edge, there will be teeth again, razor sharp, a second bite above the first, sealing them together. Will’s hands scrabbling against the bed, finding warm fingers threading through his own. It will _hurt_ and he will _scream_.

Will comes to thoughts of blood and pain, shaking him to his core, leaving him so badly empty that the need wakes him up. He stares at the ceiling and curses under his breath, _fuck fuck_ **_fuck_ ** _._

Will knows he’ll need to take time off. And he knows he’ll get it. After all, he was supposed to be on suppressants. The second the hospital finds out he’s presenting, he’ll be fired. He’ll lose his internship, lose the best thing he had for his college applications.

He won’t see Hannibal anymore.

The weekend is coming up. He can make it through one more day, one more agonizing, aching day, and then spend the weekend clawing his own skin off from the force of his need. He might be in the clear by Monday, and if he isn’t, they say the last days aren’t as intense. He’ll wear a mask and tell everyone he’s recovering from something.

And he’ll go today. He _has_ to go today. He’s already disappointed Hannibal once, and it slides in under his skin, slipping through bones and marrow to the very core of him. He can’t do it again. He can’t go back to cold distance and disapproval, not from Hannibal. 

Just one more day. Will can manage just one more day.

  
  
  
  
  


It was a royally dumb fucking idea to come to the hospital. He knows it as soon as he enters through the sliding doors, a gust of heated air sending a sharp flush over his skin. The security guard at the front door eyes him with a mix of concern and curiosity, because Will is a familiar enough face now that she can probably tell he’s not in the best physical state.

He gives her a weak, forced smile, and hopes it does the trick.

Normally he would rendezvous with Hannibal at the start of the day, set to start with their rounds and learning the rota for his surgeries du jour, but Hannibal isn’t in his office. His scent taunts Will, curls like a hook in his mouth, compelling him to walk in, to touch, to leave his mark in his scent. _Mate, mate, alpha…._ His instincts scream at him to rub his hands over Hannibal’s chair, to leave a trail for the man to hunt him down.

He stands stock still, at the entrance to the door, frozen with the desire to go in and the knowledge that he really, really shouldn’t.

“He’s in surgery.”

The sudden voice makes him jump, and he whirls to see one of the nurses give him a careful once-over. Her lips press together, nostrils flaring. She’s alpha, she can probably smell him. There’s a faint flicker of red in her eyes and Will’s own itch. He’s probably showing gold. _Fuck_. 

“So early?” he manages, voice hoarse.

She nods. “G.S.W. came in about half an hour ago. No time to wait.”

Will nods. Hannibal’s main circuit is the E.R., after all, he’d be expected to be the first in line for major and immediate surgical help when he’s on shift. And it means Will should go and observe, take notes. Hannibal will expect him to seek him out and watch, especially something like a gunshot wound - it can be a varied and complex surgery depending on the location, bullet fragments, the sex and gender of the victim.

He swallows. “Thanks,” he says, shouldering his messenger bag, and hurries towards the operating rooms.

He knows he’s already missing things, and that his own hygiene is completely irrelevant to the surgery, but he delays anyway, working his way through the steps Hannibal has taught him. First and foremost, he’s trying to mute his scent as much as possible. He has the completely irrational fear that Hannibal will look up at him, standing golden-eyed in the observation room, and _smell_ him through the glass. He’s going to find out anyway, but Will can think of no worse reason to be fired than for distracting Hannibal during a critical emergency surgery. 

The other reason for dallying, though, is that some perverse part of himself still craves Hannibal’s approval. Pathetic omega, draping himself over the first alpha to smell halfway decent, and yet here he is, sanitizing his hands until they’re red from friction. 

Hannibal won’t smell him through the glass. It’s a stupid fear. Even still, Will holds his breath as he slips silently into the observation room, fingers crossed childishly. 

Hannibal doesn’t even twitch. No one does. They’re all professionals, unlike Will, who is a stupid child wandering the halls of a hospital in nearly full-blown heat. The self-deprecation makes him feel better for a moment or two, until he remembers he’s meant to be _working_.

His handwriting, already chicken-scratch on a bad day, looks like he’s writing in a moving car. He can’t seem to keep his hand steady, not when he’s watching Hannibal pull shrapnel from a body, his hands careful and steady. He has big hands. At seventeen, Will must be nearing his full height, but he surely has a few more years to fill out. Hannibal’s hand would probably wrap neatly around his bicep, though Will doesn’t think of himself as a particularly small person.

Yet those big hands move with a practiced grace, trading tools as he works in the opening he’s made in someone’s body.

And then it happens.

Will isn’t entirely sure _why_ it happens, what medical reasoning goes through Hannibal’s head, or even what techniques Hannibal could be applying. He isn’t sure of much at all, anymore. His vision narrows, his entire being focused on those hands, as two large fingers slip into the opening. Knuckle deep in slick tissue, making a space for himself, and Will can imagine the sound it makes, the wet squelch of blood. Hannibal’s fingers pull out, slick with viscous fluid, and Will feels his own emptiness like a knife.

His body’s resistance gives out. A fresh wave of slick soaks him, bleeds through his briefs to wet his thighs. Heat contracts his awareness down to one thing, the aching need for his alpha, for the alpha Will has been slowly imprinting on for months.

He’s glad he has to push a button to be heard, because the sound he makes, were he within hearing range, would surely draw attention. It’s high-pitched and raw, evolved in omegas when in the proximity of their alphas to compel them to come closer, give chase, find any space where their omega is sweet and open and dripping wet, and _fuck_ , Will is dripping wet. 

Hannibal’s managed to extract the bullet. It’s held in his long fingers and glints dully in the bright fluorescence. Its casing, the blood clinging to it, Will imagines he can taste it. Imagines licking it off Hannibal’s fingers despite how Goddamn unsanitary that is. He wants to put his neck in Hannibal’s hands, wants to go to his knees. His knees are shaking, they won’t lock, he’s so empty and he watches Hannibal check around the entry wound after putting the bullet in a tray. Checking for fragments, or maybe just toying with his prey, Will doesn’t know. He should know but he doesn’t because _alpha is there, he’s right there_ , and he’s not touching Will and Will might actually die in this fucking observation room.

He needs air. 

He needs _alpha_.

He doesn’t want to say he flees from the observation room but that’s the only word to use for it. He stumbles over his own feet and hates how clean and dry his hands are. His skin is clammy and he obsessively pets over the back of his neck, both to self-soothe, and because he’s going to stink, here, he needs to -. Needs to -.

He finds himself back in Hannibal’s office, and he throws the door closed, panting. It’s worse in here, Hannibal’s scent is etched like filigree on a golden wall, encases him like delicate veins in someone’s wrist. He feels too full of blood, too full of drenched fever; turgid and ready to burst like fluid in a lung.

He pets his hand over the doorknob over and over again, ruts his forehead to the little sign on the back of the door marking emergency exits in case of fire. Smears sweat sticky-warm on the glass pane.

He’s going to lose his Goddamn mind. How the fuck do omegas stand it? Will’s nearly an adult and he is so aware of his own childishness, his own arrogance. Hannibal will be repulsed by him, his unprofessionalism. Maybe he’ll think Will did this on purpose.

He whines, and shoves his hand against his mouth to stifle the sound. His own palm feels too warm and wet and his hair is dripping with sweat. He can’t get back outside - people will see him, and he can’t risk patients becoming too excited and exacerbating their conditions, can’t risk a full-on hunt from any unmated alphas that might smell him.

He’s trapped, caught in a web of his own making, and he can’t stop touching Hannibal’s Goddamn door, like a plaintive puppy scratching to be let outside and make a mess on the lawn. He shudders when he feels another bead of slick blossom and fall, soaking into his clothes, his thighs so wet he feels like he’s encased in water. 

He can hear people talking outside, passing by him like nothing is amiss. Hannibal has a sharp nose; Will has seen him diagnose patients from just a whiff of their scent, even though he still defers to medical testing to confirm his theories. He’s never wrong, and he’s not going to be wrong about Will, and Will has invaded his space like he belongs here.

He doesn’t belong here. He wants to. Christ, he can’t fucking _breathe_.

He ends up in Hannibal’s chair, eventually, where Hannibal’s scent lingers strongest. Long hours spent working on paperwork or reading subpar papers have embedded the leather with sandalwood cologne and earthy shampoo, with the scent of Hannibal’s nape at the head of the chair, his hands over the armrests, sweat and life and pheromones.

Before that, though, before Will curls into a pathetic, useless lump of omega, he scents. He leaves trails of his own pheromones from the doorway to the bookcases, over the shelves, the window ledges. He makes the room smell as much of him as it does of Hannibal, and only then, with their scents intertwined, can Will collapse into the chair and gasp for breath. 

There is no way out. He cannot wander the halls, not reeking as he does. He can’t slip through the doors and out into the streets, he can’t ride the _bus_ smelling so thoroughly of slick and fertility. Will has to stay right here, until the first gushing wave of heat abates, or until Hannibal returns and has security escort him safely from the building. 

Will whines at the thought, plaintive and distressed. He won’t be able to bear the rejection, he knows this all the way down to his very bones. He’d mentally slotted Hannibal into the roll of alpha weeks ago, and the denial will kill him. He’ll never make it home, in such a state.

But just as Will can’t leave, he can’t remain hidden forever. Eventually, the lock clicks, the knob turns, and there stands Hannibal, nostrils flaring, breathing deep, taking in lungfuls of the combined scent Will has created. 

“You weren’t in the observation room,” Hannibal says, closing the door behind him. Will remains on edge until the lock clicks shut again, and only then can he focus on the words being said to him. “Now I see why.”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Will whispers. His voice is high and reedy from the aching _whine_ he’s been making for a good hour now. He sounds even younger like this, as if his voice hasn’t yet broken, and he hates it, he _hates_ this.

“You could have gone home,” Hannibal suggests. He doesn’t cross the room, makes no move to approach the nest Will has made of his chair, curled into it in the tightest of balls as if it might mold itself to cradle him like a blanket.

“No,” Will says. “No, I needed-.” He turns pink. He was already pink from heat flush, but he feels his cheeks darken with humiliation. Here it is, all laid out between the two of them. His big, stupid crush on his boss. Childish whims and stupid omega instincts. 

“You needed to be here,” Hannibal says slowly. “Not the hospital. This room, specifically.”

Neither of them say the obvious: that Will needed to be here because Hannibal’s _bedroom_ was out of reach, unknown. Because this was the only place Will could find that would smell almost exclusively of Hannibal. They’re beyond spelling such things out, at this point.

Hannibal’s static is beginning to grate on him. He stares, a subtle thread of red in his eyes that Will can only notice as different from the usual shade because he knows Hannibal, he _knows_ him. And doesn’t, all at once. He knows how Hannibal behaves at work and that was apparently enough for his stupid, unpresented instincts to latch on and grab and now there’s nowhere for him to go.

“Are you going to call security?” he manages, as another wave of impatient, relentless heat makes his stomach cramp and his hands shake. It takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to rub his wrists on the arms of Hannibal’s chair. Not that it would matter; he’s done plenty of that before Hannibal even showed up.

Hannibal’s head tilts. He breathes in, slow, so slowly it has time to reach across the space between them, curl around the back of Will’s ribs and _yank_.

“It would be the most prudent course of action,” Hannibal says, quietly. Will clenches his eyes shut and turns his face away. “But I have always tried to consider what is best for my patients in all aspects of their care. Not just the practical.”

Will’s brow creases.

“Emotional wellbeing can be just as important, Will, you know that.”

Will blinks. It feels like Hannibal is trying to get him to realize something. It’s important; Will should pay attention. But his fingers shake and every muscle from the waist down feels like it’s at once liquid and made of lightning-drenched steel. He aches.

Hannibal takes a step closer. The shuffle of his clothing and the light step of his weight hitting the floor hits the base of Will’s skull like a blow. He whimpers.

“This is a teachable moment, Will,” Hannibal tells him. His voice is low and even and his hands eclipse Will’s vision when they spread out like they do when he’s showcasing a cadaver for Will to study. “An omega, in obvious distress, capable of hurting himself or others. We can’t remove him from the situation without causing a scene. What is your recommendation?”

 _Isolation_ , Will’s brain supplies, and then immediately hisses at the notion. 

“If he’s mated -.” He chokes on the excess saliva in his mouth, buries his face in the crook of his elbow. Shivers and pulls a heel up to rest on the edge of the chair and pretends that he doesn’t know exactly how that looks.

“Is he?” Hannibal’s voice is curious. 

Will’s fingers curl, and he bares his teeth. “Certainly fuckin’ seems like it,” he snaps, glaring down at his own knee through his hair. He’s gotten to the point where the curls are getting slick and heavy with sweat. “Behavioral pattern fits.”

Hannibal hums. “Then the most efficient way to soothe his distress is to give him to his mate, it seems,” he says. How the fuck he’s managing to stay so calm, Will has no idea. It makes the hard ball of icy anxiety sink lower in his stomach. Alpha isn’t reacting because Alpha doesn’t want him. Because Will is a stupid Goddamn fucking _kid_.

Maybe it’s the fever, maybe it’s because Hannibal is so close Will can _taste_ him, maybe it's because he feels like he’s losing his damn mind - whatever it is, Will manages to find the strength and wherewithal to snap; “Then do it.”

Hannibal invades his senses, fills his nose and his mouth and his goddamn _lungs_ , but he doesn’t touch Will. He lingers just beyond the bubble of heat Will has created for himself, an artificial nest that does no justice to the real thing. Will wants to set teeth to the juncture where his throat meets his shoulder, and rip the artery to shreds. 

“It is important that a patient give complete, informed consent before any procedure,” Hannibal says. His voice drips honey and self-importance. Nothing he says is for Will’s benefit, it’s all a show to ensure Will knows who’s in charge.

Will knows _exactly_ who’s in charge. He gapes at Hannibal, eyes wide, expression _offended._

“Do I look uninformed to you?” He asks. “Could my presence here be anything but consent?”

  
Hannibal’s reddened eyes betray his amusement. “It’s normal for an unmated omega to seek comfort from-.”

Will leaps at him, knocking him into the bookshelves. Something clatters, breaks. Will doesn’t care. He has no fear that Hannibal will send him away, not if he’s pleased enough to be teasing. 

Hannibal tastes of hospital coffee, bitter and over-brewed. Will nips at his jaw, licks his way into his mouth in searching swipes. Hannibal’s hands rest lightly on Will’s waist. He’s smiling into the kiss, which is so damn insufferable that Will nearly bites him for it.

“I consent,” Will says, turning to shove Hannibal towards the desk instead. “I consent, you arrogant, _smug_ -.”

He manages to get Hannibal bent backwards, braced on his elbows, and immediately forgets what he was saying. Miles of new territory to touch, to bite, but Will’s senses have locked onto the growing bulge between his thighs. 

“Generally,” Hannibal says, as Will undoes his belt, “it’s the omega’s job to present.”

Will growls and drags Hannibal’s pants down around his thighs. “I have my hands next to your genitals,” he reminds him.

Hannibal’s lips twitch in a smile. “So it seems.” Arrogant bastard. Will can’t bring himself to move farther. Hannibal’s erection is steadily growing, obviously reactive, though still trapped behind his underwear. The scent of him makes Will feel empty and soaked in all the wrong places. 

This isn’t how he imagined it would go. This isn’t -. “Why aren’t you moving?” he asks, because through the haze of heat burning the backs of his eyelids and roasting his brain to mush, he knows this isn’t normal. Hannibal is anything but passive; his reclined laxness and pliancy, his amicable submission, rubs Will the wrong way.

Hannibal hums, and pushes himself upright. His fingers, wide-splayed and warm and smelling of disinfectant and latex gloves and still, that tiny trace of dead blood, curl in Will’s hair. Push it, slick and black, from his face.

“In lieu of a sober contract between us, Will, the only true consent you can give is active participation.” His head tilts, his thumb brushes over the crease between Will’s brow. “Forceful participation.”

“You….” Will’s upper lip twitches, teeth bared in a snarl. He forces himself to lift his eyes from Hannibal’s cock, though he can’t bring them much higher than the lapel of his lab coat. “You need me to control this,” he says.

The sound Hannibal makes is like every time Will impresses him with his notes and observations, and serves to drive every ounce of strength from him and every clear thought from his head that isn’t _alpha_ and _please_. 

“The first time, at least,” Hannibal replies. Will shivers at the implication of a _second_ time. 

He draws in a breath through his teeth, that stinks of Hannibal, and reaches out to grip Hannibal’s coat, knuckles turning white. Control, then. Will can do that. He can take what he wants, and, if Hannibal insists on only obeying Will’s commands, he can get it in exactly the _way_ he wants.

“Grip my hair tighter,” he demands, and Hannibal’s eyes flash with intrigue, shining and red-lined. Will waits until he feels Hannibal’s long, sure fingers curl in his hair, wrap around the base of his skull and tighten, before he shoves Hannibal far back enough on the desk that he can climb into his lap, sending papers and files and everything else scattering to the floor, and claim his alpha in a rough, biting kiss.

The action sends signals through Will’s body, sparks of sensation screaming ‘This, yes, _this’_. Will doesn’t bother with Hannibal’s shirt, hands skipping right down to his slacks to yank his belt free of its loops.

He feels empty. Hungry. He wants to devour this man. To take all of Hannibal inside himself, until there is nothing left. It’s a struggle to squirm out of his own slacks, but when he does, it’s worth it, just to rut his bare skin against Hannibal, staining and ruining his clothes with his slick. Hannibal will never wear this outfit again. Even if he can get the stain out, the scent, they will always remind him of Will. 

Possessiveness rears through Will like a hurricane. He pops the button of Hannibal’s slacks open. In his eagerness, it goes flying across the room, skittering over the floor to land…somewhere. Will stops paying attention, because he’s gotten Hannibal’s briefs down as well, and there it is. Curved against a trail of coarse curls, foreskin pulled back to reveal the slick head, thick and dark with blood. His knot isn’t inflated yet, but Will can see the place where it will form, slightly swollen in Hannibal’s eagerness. Hannibal _wants_ him. Possibly as badly as Will has wanted him for weeks.

There is, for a moment, nervousness. Will has never put much stock in the concept of virginity, but it’s different when it’s his own. When he knows that the man before him has likely had a dozen lovers, lovers who were older than Will, more experienced than Will.

But the ache is creeping up his spine, and Will can’t talk himself out of it now. If it has to be done, at least it’s Hannibal. At least it’s someone Will admires, someone he’s craved. Someone who is much too polite to tell Will if he’s a disappointment. 

Hannibal has eyes only for him when Will rises up onto his knees. They caress him as thoroughly as Hannibal’s hands, touching every piece of him. Will’s flush is full-bodied, heat and shyness intermingled as he takes hold of Hannibal’s cock and braces himself.

The first nudge is a little awkward. Despite his own personal fumblings, he doesn’t entirely know how to line himself up, and it takes one or two tries, Hannibal hissing as his cock slides through trails of slick.

And then it catches. Hot and thick, pressing against resistance and then _through_ it, filling Will in agonizingly slow increments. Will’s lips part, his jaw drops. It hurts, but only a little. Only a slight, burning stretch, an aching fullness as he lowers himself, thighs quivering, into Hannibal’s lap. 

It’s too much and then it’s not enough and then it’s too much all over again. It’s a silly, over-romanticized notion, but Will’s body parts like it was made for the alpha he has pinned below him. The same alpha who is looking up at Will with eyes so red and black it’s like staring into a bonfire at night. There’s very little chance for Hannibal to gain leverage as they are and Will wishes, for a moment, he’d commanded Hannibal mount him right over the desk - he’s sure Hannibal would have, if Will asked for it. Forceful participation and all that.

But right now Hannibal can’t do a Goddamn thing and Will...kind of likes that, too. He’ll get the chance later, a voice in his head purrs to him, to feel Alpha inside him and covering him and biting him to pieces. But right now, the _first_ time, this is nice, too.

He rolls his hips, testing, his knee shoving a stack of files into a mess on the floor. Thankfully with minimal splatter. A pen rolls and clacks to a halt on the ugly carpet. Hannibal’s hands curl around his thighs, wide and warm, nudging shaking muscle and helping Will pull his knees together, tight to Hannibal’s ribs, and the new angle of his legs tightens all the way up to his pelvis, makes it easier to clench around the cock inside him, and he feels a little thrill of victorious pride when Hannibal’s nostrils flare wide and his jaw visibly clenches as Will goes tight.

Will swallows, pushes Hannibal’s shirt up so he can touch his broad chest. He’s sure they look absolutely ricidulous, just enough of them bare to fuck like horny teenagers (well, Will still is, of course, but Hannibal should know better), but he can’t help be affected by how hot it is to see Hannibal, this put-together, unshakable monument of a man, put on his back and looking up at Will like it’s taking all his strength not to flip him over and rut into him until he screams.

“You just gonna lie there and stare at me?” he manages, slightly breathless, laughing sheepishly. He’s not sure what he expects to happen now, or even what he _wants_ to happen. From the stories he’s heard, his own awareness of himself startles him. He expected it to be more of a haze, a greedy and relentless sweep of arousal and unending stimulation. 

Hannibal’s hands feel like they’re burning, but Will can’t remember the last time he breathed this easy, soaked in the scent of his alpha.

Hannibal hums, lashes lowering in a slow blink. “The view is quite pleasant,” he teases, and Will’s brow arches. He pinches Hannibal’s flank just to hear him hiss, groans helplessly as the action makes Hannibal twitch inside him, an insistent press of his hips bruising the backs of Will’s thighs. “But for now, as I said -.”

“Forceful participation, got it,” Will replies. He tries to squeeze his muscles in that way that had made Hannibal growl for him before. Hannibal’s fingers flex on his thighs, run upwards, so slow and Will so sensitive they feel like claws. “And I don’t suppose a blanket request of ‘do whatever the fuck you want to me’ is gonna fly, is it?”

Hannibal’s eyes grow dark. He presses his lips together, wets them. His chest rumbles under Will’s hands.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he murmurs, low and shuddering through Will’s body.

Will grins. He feels, for once in his life, like the one with the upper hand. The one who has all the power. “I never do.”

Hannibal’s fingers tighten on Will’s hips, just the barest suggestion of nails against his skin before they relax again. “Next time,” he promises Will. “Next time, you will get everything you deserve.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “This is, like, a _thing_ for you, isn’t it?” he realizes. When Hannibal attempts a glare, Will rises just a bit and then lets himself rock down again. It draws a helpless moan from his lips, the sensation of being filled even better the second time around. He loses his ability to tease Hannibal, for several long minutes, instead just rocking himself back and forth on the piercing hardness inside him. 

Hannibal curves up against places Will has never been able to reach on his own. The head of his cock prods at nerve endings that sing and scream with every little nudge, sending spiderwebs of electricity through his body. 

Will feels good in a way he hasn’t before. Nothing has ever been like this, wet heat and sparks throughout. His cock jerks, a smear of fluid at the tip. He’s _hungry_ . Now that he has this, now that he’s tasted, he doesn’t know how he’s ever going to _stop_.

“Next time,” Will growls, bracing his palms flat against Hannibal’s chest, “I get everything I _want_ . If this is for _you_ , next time we do it for _me_.”

Oh, he’s getting so much from _this_ , though. So much from having Hannibal bend to his will, his whims. So much from pinning an _alpha_ down and taking what he needs. He uses his newfound leverage to rut eagerly atop Hannibal, feeling the swell at the base that will soon be a _knot_ , that will lock them together and fill him so very-.

  
“If you get me pregnant,” Will says with startled realization, “I’ll kill you.” He’s on birth control (optimistically, he’ll admit), but he’s heard stories. “I mean it, Hannibal, I will _kill_ you.” With every word, he drops a little harder into Hannibal’s lap, his threats stuttered out around moans.

Hannibal lets out an amused hum. “Now, why would I do that?” he murmurs. With Will more than happy to ride him, his hands have begun to wander, nails skating low over Will’s belly, pads of his fingers brushing the tops of his sweaty thighs, curling and cupping his ass. Touching everywhere except where Will wants him to. “You have three months of your shadowing program to finish, not to mention graduation, and college -.”

Will groans. “God, shut _up_ ,” he hisses, leaning forward and flattening a hand over Hannibal’s mouth. But he can’t reach up and fuck himself as deep or hard as he likes, so he pulls his fingers back and flattens them on Hannibal’s chest again. The buttons of his wrinkled and ruined shirt press to Will’s palm and he knows there will be answering indents on the alpha’s chest. “I’m just, just _saying_ -.” Another swivel of his hips, fuck, there’s a place inside him that Hannibal is hitting _just right_ and it feels so fucking good -. “Just... _fuck_ , just saying. Participation. Your problem.”

“I understand,” Hannibal murmurs, and Will lifts his head, meets his eyes. Sees sincerity reflected back at him. Hannibal smiles at him, a little too much teeth to be purely affectionate, and cups Will’s wrist. “I’m tempted to ask how you’d do it.”

Will tilts his head back, gasps; “Kill you?”

“Yes. If I fell prey to my instincts.” Will moans, Christ, that shouldn’t be so fucking hot. “Impregnated you.”

Will’s nails dig into Hannibal’s shirt, around his collar, twisting like he might be able to rip it off by its seams. Seeing what he’s seen, studying under Hannibal’s vast knowledge and strict tutelage, he knows a thousand and one ways for someone to die. His eyes fall to where Hannibal’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist. Probably checking Will’s pulse, because he’s still a doctor and heat sickness is a real thing and Will hasn’t had much to eat or drink in the past day and a half. 

The brush of his skin is so warm, Will’s breath hitches and he thinks of gloves, smeared with blood. Thinks of his dreams where claws and fangs ripped through his flesh. Sees how Hannibal is looking at him and it’s all too much and not enough all over again.

“With my hands,” he finally says. “I’d kill you with my bare hands.”

Hannibal’s mouth twitches again, a snarl and smile caught and tangled like netting around an animal. Will gasps as Hannibal suddenly pushes himself upright, cradling Will tight in his lap, Will’s knees digging into the desk and Hannibal’s hands planted, one on the small of his back, the other wrapped tight and bruising along his nape.

Hannibal kisses him, and Will can only cling and moan helplessly as Hannibal forces him down, forces his thighs wide and his muscles lax, the pressure on two of the most sensitive placative points on an omega found and mercilessly teased. Liquid heat runs down Will’s spine, makes every inch of him relax, his neck limp and head only supported by Hannibal’s big hand, his lower back dipping and spine arching like a kitten.

Hannibal breathes into him, fills his lungs, as Hannibal forces Will down and Will gasps, moaning sharp and high with a tiny flash of pain from a sudden stretch, and digs his nails into Hannibal’s shoulder as his alpha’s knot locks inside him, and he feels the first flood of warmth.

If Will was fertile, this would be the moment. Hannibal would fill him, full and dripping, seed would meet egg, and Will would do what his instincts were screaming at him to do. Breed. Grow round and fat with alphas for _his_ alpha.

 _His_ alpha. Will moans, clenching around the knot. It’s like he can feel it all the way in his belly, and though he knows that’s not true, he brings a hand to rest over it anyway.

Hannibal’s mouth gentles against Will’s own, kisses softening to something tender, sweet. Now that they’re locked together, now that he’s filled Will up with his scent and seed, there’s less reason for aggression. He pulls back, nuzzling their noses together. 

Will is still on the edge of a precipice. Hannibal’s climax has soothed, but not sated him. The need still burns, just under the surface, but he takes a moment, a breath. 

“Now will you believe me?” he murmurs, cracking his eyes open to peer at Hannibal. Red rings Hannibal’s irises thoroughly, and the color spurs a new rumble beneath Will’s skin. “Will you believe I want this? I want _you_.”

“You haven’t quite cooled down yet,” Hannibal says, his fingers scratching gently at Will’s tailbone. Will squirms atop him, guiding pressure into the spaces he needs it most and whining softly when he succeeds. He doesn’t care that it proves Hannibal’s point. He cares that it feels good, that it calms the heat that eats at him. 

“Stop,” Will says. “Don’t play games, not with me.” He grabs at Hannibal, fingers twisting in slick blond strands, and hauls him close. Hannibal’s lips graze his throat. “Bite,” Will demands, stern and unyielding. _Consenting_.

Hannibal’s jaws part, a teasing graze of teeth that lights every muscle and nerve ending in Will on fire. He feels each new, fresh wave of Hannibal’s come inside him, filling him, flooding him. This is right, it’s _so right_ , a frantic, dumb part of Will’s lizard brain is screaming that he’s always meant to be like this, fucked open and knotted and pleasing his alpha. Hannibal’s purr is soft but insistent where Will’s hand is pressed, his heart steady and heavy. 

“Please, Hannibal,” he whispers, closing his eyes. Bares his teeth and sets them on Hannibal’s throat. It’s convention for Alpha to bite first, but if Hannibal makes him wait a single fucking _second_ longer -.

The pressure builds as Hannibal kneads gently at his neck, the same soft and insistent pressure with which he’s petting Will’s tailbone, and gripping his shoulder. It’s gathering like a wave, a storm cloud threatening to burst, and Will trembles and muffles a scream to Hannibal’s neck as finally, his skin gives. Melts like butter to a hot knife, parts like a fresh corpse to a mortician’s scalpel. He’s aware of his own blood, tongued with such delicate care into Hannibal’s mouth, Hannibal nursing at him like a lamb at a warm bottle.

Affection and starving need rise up in Will. He clings to Hannibal’s hair and arches, lifting his shoulder and baring more of his throat. It’s not rough, it’s not the savage rip of teeth through muscle he imagined, it’s so much better than that. He’ll get the rest later, when he drives Hannibal to embrace the instincts that are no-doubt clamoring in his head, but right now it’s so good and feels so right that Will has tears in his eyes and his tremors are not entirely from pleasure, but overwhelmed all the same.

He drops a hand to his hard cock, whimpering as Hannibal continues to nurse at his neck, his sharp fangs and strong incisors insistently working themselves deep into Will’s flesh, through skin and muscle until he will scar so completely and thoroughly, and leave this room as a mated and claimed omega.

His hips twitch in time with the flood of Hannibal’s come inside him, his hand matching the rhythm. As Hannibal withdraws his teeth, so too does Will’s orgasm come for him, blinding him and sending white off behind his eyelids. He moans and shudders as he comes, bearing down fiercely around his alpha’s knot and causing an answering shudder to run through Hannibal. Instinct tells him that the more Will comes, the tighter he stays, the longer Hannibal’s knot will last, and right now the idea of Hannibal leaving him empty and dripping and sore is more painful than what he’s experienced of his heat so far.

“Bite me again,” he commands, and Hannibal lets out a soft, amused exhale, nosing under Will’s clenching jaw, smearing blood and sweat around. It’s natural, placates an omega to smell themselves on their alpha, and Will knows Hannibal is doing this for his benefit as much as to sate his own desires. Will’s hand is wet with come and he reaches up and smears it all over Hannibal’s neck.

“Bite,” he urges. “I’ll come again if you bite. It’ll feel so good, Hannibal, please -.” Will chokes around another cry as Hannibal snarls, fits his teeth to the same mark and clenches his jaws so tight Will imagines a chunk of his flesh parting from him, taken behind Hannibal’s teeth. He wants to be open and bruised and bloody for his alpha and he can’t help thinking Hannibal wants the same damn thing. He stiffens and his entire body rolls with another aftershock, cock dribbling over Hannibal’s still-clothed stomach.

He sighs, lax and sated - for now, a log added to the fire to momentarily stymy the flames, but it will catch, and roar again. He kisses Hannibal’s thrumming pulse, kneads his fingers against his alpha’s nape and shoulder, purrs loud and throaty and imagines Hannibal can feel the vibrations of it against his tongue.

“So good,” he breathes. Alphas are just as desperate for praise as omegas are and he’d dare anyone to argue with him. Hannibal’s hands flatten over the base of his spine, spread out wide and warm, helping Will move just enough to tease his knot and keep it swollen. “So good, alpha, _Hannibal_ , yeah, _fuck_. Mm -.”

He brings Hannibal into another kiss, and moans at the taste of his own blood in his mate’s mouth.

Will had imagined he would feel different, somehow, and he does. There is a clear line dividing the boy he was before, and the man he is now, omega, bonded, mated, _bred_. He can have this, now. He _will_ have this. There’s nothing anyone can do, now that Hannibal’s teeth have left echoes of themselves embedded forever in Will’s throat.

They will need to make adjustments to Will’s internship, but he doesn’t give a damn. He finds he cares very little about anything other than the shiver of Hannibal’s skin against his own, the pulse inside him that tells his body how well he’s been used. 

At some point, they end up on the floor, Will cradled in the ruins of Hannibal’s suit jacket, Hannibal braced over him, able to shield him so entirely from the world. They are not so different in size, yet Will finds that if he never does hit that last growth spurt, he might not mind. Hannibal can have that slight advantage, if it means he will cover Will’s body and fuck stars into his vision. 

Will returns Hannibal’s mark tenfold, in a serious bite to his throat, and more playful nips down his shoulders, his biceps. They link hands and rock together in the haze of infinity they have created, one climax feeding into another, and another, until there is nothing left but them, but the steady thrum of a heartbeat and soft, wet gasps.

  
  
  
  
  


Midway through his final semester, Will slips into Hannibal’s office with menace in his eyes, teeth bared.

Hannibal loves him this way. Loves him all ways, of course, both soft and sweet and fiery and vengeful. But this, this glint of half ire, half manic glee, this, Hannibal loves so dearly.

“You have classes,” Hannibal reminds him, rolling his chair back to make room. Will slots himself between Hannibal’s knees, propped up on the desk with his own legs crossed and a snarl quirking at his lips.

“Do you remember what I told you?” he asks, voice soft. Deceptively so. It is a voice Hannibal has heard many a time, the same false innocence that Will had used to ease them out of trouble when his father and the hospital had both found out about their bond. “All those years ago, do you recall?”

“I remember everything you tell me,” Hannibal assures him, resting a hand on Will’s knee. He looks up at him, at this creature who has so soundly captivated him. There’s still a blossoming red bruise just under his jaw from the night before. He wears it like a medal. “Perhaps you’d like to be more specific?”

“I told you that if you got me pregnant before graduation, I’d kill you.”

Hannibal blinks at him, and his smile grows. Will answers it, though his is far closer to a snarl than any expression of pure pleasure. “Ah,” he murmurs, sliding his hand slowly up Will’s thigh. No one can comment on their behavior now - Hannibal is no longer his direct superior, and Will is of age, and they are mated. Hidden away in Hannibal’s office like the worst-kept secret.

Will shivers, nostrils flaring, but he makes no move to spread his thighs, as he normally does so eagerly. Which makes sense, if what Hannibal assumes, deduces, and decides with a single slow, exaggerated inhale, is true; Will is pregnant. There is no instinct in him right now to be dug deep and made wet, planted with seed. He’ll be naturally dry and resistant until he gives birth, unless given help.

Will smiles, and cups Hannibal’s cheek in a tender touch. A touch that quickly grows clawed as he wraps his fingers in the ends of Hannibal’s hair, yanks his chin up and snarls at him. “That’s all you have to say?” he snaps. 

“Accidents happen, Will,” Hannibal replies mildly. “Not even abstinence is one hundred percent.”

Will’s lip twitches back. He’s so beautiful when he’s angry, but especially this performative show. He cannot hide from Hannibal’s nose. If he were ashamed of the sweetness his scent has taken on, hinting at the growing life in his belly, he would be wearing deadening deodorant or have otherwise masked his scent. If he were _truly_ upset, he wouldn’t be teasing Hannibal like this, pressed so close and neck on display like the brazen young man he is. 

Will’s exhale is heavy, slow, his other hand touching Hannibal’s throat, just below the corner of his jaw. Hannibal wears his collars high, but there’s an upward arc of blackness where Will caught and kissed him, kneading his fangs into Hannibal’s throat as he let Hannibal mount him and burn his back against the carpet. His Will is a savage, fierce little thing.

“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Will demands, though his voice has gentled. Like he’s shocked by Hannibal’s behavior. “What did you do? Swap my meds? Dose me with cough syrup so it fucked with them? Poke a hole in the condom?”

That one night, when Will had been a little lax with his refill. They’d used a condom and Hannibal feels an echo of visceral disgust at having to wear it. His entire being, his instincts, everything that made him Alpha had howled in rage at the notion of anything separating him from Will.

He hums. “Perhaps we simply underestimated how eager your body would be to catch,” he says lightly. Will’s brow arches, disbelieving, but his lashes dip low and he shivers when Hannibal’s hand resumes its course up Will’s thigh and flattens on his stomach. Smooth, for now. He’ll look so beautiful as he grows, heavy and round, glowing. 

He lifts his eyes, meets Will’s, and takes Will’s hand from his neck, kissing his fingers. “It won’t affect your graduation,” he murmurs. “Nor your studies. Is it really that upsetting?”

Will’s eyes flash, his lips twitch in a smirk. Hannibal has never been able to hide from him. 

He curls his hand, tucks his fingers beneath Hannibal’s chin, and bends down, sliding off the desk and melting into place on Hannibal’s lap. Hannibal growls, unable to help himself as he feels Will’s weight settle on him. Will’s scent has changed, from cut grass and wet, silty riverbanks to wildflowers and the burn of menthol. He kisses his mate ravenously and purrs when Will shivers, arching close to him.

“I am upset,” Will murmurs, soft and playful. He holds Hannibal by his nape and kisses the corner of his mouth. His jaw, his cheekbone. Makes his way to Hannibal’s ear and nips at the arch. “Pissed.”

Hannibal’s hands flatten on Will’s thighs, spread out wide to keep him steady. Flex, wanting to grab and tear through clothing to get at where he knows Will is warm and open and clings to him so sweetly. 

“There will be a reckoning, Doctor Lecter,” Will whispers, and shoves himself close, fangs sinking into the band of muscle behind Hannibal’s jaw, high enough that his clothes won’t cover any of it. Hannibal closes his eyes, a rumble stuck low in his stomach. 

Will hums, pulling back, wipes the back of his hand across his red lips and shows Hannibal his blood-stained teeth. “I should go,” he says, like he can’t see the rabid desire in Hannibal’s eyes, can’t feel how heavy his heart is pounding nor how tense he is, aching for friction, for touch. Will might be omega but he’s far from powerless. 

Will pushes himself off Hannibal’s lap, grinning openly at the rough hiss Hannibal lets out at the loss of him. “Find me an OB-GYN you can tolerate,” he says, circling Hannibal’s desk. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Will.” Will stops, a wide, smug smile on his face as Hannibal rises from his chair and chases him, gathers him in his arms and buries his nose in Will’s neck. The new scent of Will is driving him mad - somehow more potent than his heat scent, it calls to a different part of Hannibal. One that needs to nurture and protect and -.

Will turns in his arms, tilts his chin up, and kisses Hannibal sweet and long. “You’ll be alright,” he says, giving Hannibal’s cheek a gentle pat. Cruel, beautiful, _darling_ boy. He drops his hand to Will’s stomach again, closes his eyes, his purr loud and shameless.

Will tolerates it a moment longer, and then worms his way free. “I’ll see you tonight,” he says again, gently. Hannibal nods, swallowing harshly enough the new bite on his neck throbs tenderly. Will smiles at him, and slips out the door. 


End file.
